The Singer He Loved
by Arelya-Andaria
Summary: Meg & Erik. After the events of the musical. Meg goes to look for the Phantom. One-shot.


_Happy reading!_

* * *

She hadn't been blind.

She had noticed what had happened to her friend. Much like her mother, she was perceptive, and it had only taken Christine telling her about her Angel to know both creatures were one and the same.

After the end of the show, her friend had left, and she'd found the mask. Attracted to him and his music, after he'd shown them all his opera. What a beautiful, powerful duet he'd shared with them all. So different from anything she'd ever heard before.

What would she have given to dance some more on his music.

Attracted to his music.

Knowing what lay under the mask, as they'd all seen.

They'd all put it to fire and ruin, that beautiful palace of Dance and Music where she'd spent her entire life. Now she was homeless, without a job, without a friend.

Of course, her mother had found them all a new home, but it would be weeks and months until they could reopen the Garnier, if it reopened at all.

And where had he gone? That mysterious man she'd always been part afraid of, and part attracted to? He'd always been part of her life, haunting the Garnier, as much his home as hers.

He was resourceful, she knew, but after the events that had gone down in his lair, who knew what would happen to him?

Christine had refused to talk about them, but she wasn't stupid. He'd started with kidnapping her, under the eyes of everyone in Paris, and then she'd left with Raoul de Chagny, claiming the problem was taken care of.

He wasn't dead, she knew. She had seen no body, nothing but his mask.

She wanted to find him. She needed to.

If only she knew where to start…

It took her a few weeks to find him again. He'd cleverly hidden his tracks, but they were still there, for those who knew to read them.

And she did.

One night, under the night sky, she went to find him. She would be careful, as if approaching a wounded animal. Who knew in what physical and mental state he was after what had happened?

At first, she was only there, saying nothing, in front of the door of his new home. He'd reached out to one of his old friends, a Persian man who used to work as a police officer. He was hiding in his house.

She'd brought a letter, in which each of the words had been carefully penned. But it was her mission now. She needed to see him. Only he knew what it felt like to be suddenly abandoned and discarded after so much love.

He'd loved her. And she'd loved her too.

_"__I don't even know your name. I've only ever known you as the Phantom, the Opera Ghost. But I'm reaching out to you now. As I am, you're without a home. Without a job. I am merely a ballerina, but one you never had to complain about to our dear managers, so I must hope my dancing wasn't horrible to you._

_I loved your Opera. I wish we'd had the end, and I could have danced to it for many performances, as it deserved._

_I loved your duet too. Your voice was unlike anything I'd ever heard._

_I'm not expecting anything from you, but I will be coming back, with more letters. I can understand you wish for no one to see you. I found your mask underneath the Garnier, after you left._

_I understand you must not wish to speak about Her again. She was my dearest friend, and I lost her too. I would like to share thoughts about her, if you're so inclined. Or about your music, if thinking about her is too hard._

_I hope to read from you,_

_In the hope to be called your friend,_

_Meg Giry."_

With a heavy heart, and hope still, she knocked at the door. She heard a few light footsteps behind the door, and an old man opening it.

"Yes?"

"I am Meg Giry, and I would like to give this letter to the gentleman in the mask, in your house."

"There is nobody here except me."

"You do not have to lie to me, I know he's here. Would you please give him the letter?"

He observed her, eyes wise and clear despite his wrinkled skin.

"Very well. I shall give him this, but do not hope for an answer, Mademoiselle."

"It's alright. We will see."

She curtsied, and left, praying to the gods he would understand where she came from.

She was back in her home, absent-mindedly humming as she worked her body, rehearsing the beautiful dancing she'd done lately, loving how graceful and still shockingly modern it had felt. Now, in this small flat, with barely enough light, it looked nothing like it'd been on the stage, but it was better than nothing.

His music, and this dance haunted her.

Knock on the door. Her mother had gone for a short shopping trip, and she expected no one. Still, heart beating furiously, she ran to the door.

"Yes?"

It was him, the strange Persian man, and he looked furious to be sent as messenger.

"Mademoiselle Giry? I was asked to give you this."

He held out a letter and she took it with trembling hands.

"I was told to wait until you read it and answered this letter."

He sounded as furious and weary as he looked.

She nodded.

"I will be fast. Thank you for waiting. Would you like to come in and wait in the parlor? I shall not be long."

"Thank you Mademoiselle."

He sat down while she ran to her room. Cut open her finger in her haste to read it.

_"__Mademoiselle Giry,_

_I do not know why you care so much about me. In the past, I would have thrown your letter away and not given it a second thought. Still your words have aroused my interest._

_I shall not speak about her._

_That music is cursed to me, now, as are most of the memories of that night._

_Still, I appreciate that at least someone in this city enjoyed my music._

_You were right, you are probably my favorite of the ballerinas, your dancing was decent. I had no interest in complaining about you when there were so many others deserving my attention._

_Would you like to continue this written correspondence? As you most kindly suggested, I would like to keep my privacy, and refuse any meeting. But I remain open to discussing with you further._

_You may call me Maestro. In time, perhaps will I give you my true name, should you prove trustworthy._

_Your Friend,_

_O.G."_

He'd said yes. She went to her desk, writing a few words, before sealing the letter and running back to the Persian man.

"Please give him this. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Mademoiselle Giry," he said in a grumpy voice.

She accompanied him back to the door, and closed it behind him. And held his letter close to her heart.

_"__Thank you for your trust. I shall try to prove worthy of it. In time, I will find a way for you to play and I could listen, without seeing you. You were her Angel, I would be glad to call you Maestro._

_Your Friend,_

_Meg Giry."_

He'd been in and out for the past few weeks. Not remembering a lot of what he'd done those days, just waiting to die, perhaps. After she'd left, returning his ring, and he'd escaped to his old friend's home, he'd just lingered there, down on a rug in the darkness. Hunger and thirst did not have any hold over him.

Her letter had surprised him. He hadn't expected anyone to care enough to look for him, especially someone who did not want to turn him over to Justice, as he surely deserved.

But some of her words had gone to his heart.

She had liked his music, even this accursed music he'd thought his best, but was only a travesty of love.

The pain was insane.

His heart had gone.

But her words… He'd had to answer.

He'd penned a few, hoping for a human connection.

Had he sunk so low, he would share things with a ballet girl?

Had he no more hope, he would speak with anyone, looking for any human connection?

So he did. And she answered. And from that, a tentative friendship was born.

She told him of her days. He told her of his memories. Avoiding the hard subjects.

Soon the opera reopened.

And she was dancing again.

She told him about it, and how she wanted to see him. Mostly, to hear him.

It was heartbreaking to come back to the opera house afterwards, but he had to, even if his home had been destroyed, and nothing he'd known had been kept the way it was.

Still.

He'd asked her to meet in a rehearsal room, when the performances were done, and no one remained inside.

It was like before, and yet nothing was the same.

He wasn't training her. He was performing for her.

He was singing, directing his song to her, and she'd cried.

His grief was palpable, and she danced to his song, letting the melody he wove around her direct her movements. It soared and rose and twirled around her, and she was lost in his music.

It was as glorious as when he'd sung his Don Juan, perhaps more so, for she was alone and could express her intense feelings back to him.

And slowly, her heart began to heal.

And as he sang to the young dancer in that room, he felt a sigh rise inside.

Some measure of peace, after his death and rebirth, by her kiss.

Time went on, and she danced for him, and he loved to see her create movements on his songs. There was grace in every of her gesture, passion and intent, as well. She could be a bird about to fly, or a tiger around her prey. The river floating gently down a field, lazy and warm, or a storm in summer, lightning fast and furious.

Somehow he'd never appreciated dance before enough to see that.

Somehow, her mouth closed, she could express more than the singers who had taken their place back in the opera house.

Afterwards, she stretched and curled up in a chair with a blanket and some tea, and through the walls, they would talk.

Nothing much, but it was growing on her.

She didn't feel so alone anymore.

One night, though, he did break their rule of "never about her".

"She's getting married. Did you know?"

Yes. She'd known, for her old friend had come herself to announce it, bringing the most ridiculous invitation. But she'd thought about it, and resulted not to tell him.

"I did."

"You didn't think to tell me."

"I thought it was unwise to mention it. Or Her."

A pause. She thought he would leave her and not return. Sometimes he'd done that, early on, when his opinion didn't match hers and she'd felt brave enough to voice them.

"You may be right."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not yet. Tomorrow."

She nodded. He could see her, of course, and would not fail to see her agreement.

The next day, she was impatient and afraid. He'd been her friend, and she was scared talking about her would take him away from her.

She needn't have worried.

This time, he was in the room. Dressed in black, in his usual finery, as dashing as he'd seemed when he'd appeared onstage, before her friend had unmasked him.

He had his mask.

"I shall sing for you, first. Please dance?"

He began singing, and she started dancing.

Her dancing always brought him peace, for reasons he couldn't understand.

And today, she was soft and pliant as a rose, blossoming in front of his eyes.

He could hardly keep his eyes off her.

Afterwards, she stretched, and he joined her on the sofa, and began telling her everything.

By the end, she had tears down her cheeks. As his tale grew on, he'd seemed to curl up and up, until he was nothing but a shell, frightened and frail, broken by grief.

She breathed deeply, and slowly hugged him, not letting go, drawing long circles on his back.

He'd tensed, but slowly, slowly, he'd relaxed into her arms, and his deep, peaceful sigh was the most beautiful thing she'd heard from him.

It was the nicest he'd felt in a long, long time. Her kiss had been the highlight of his life, the climax of a life filled with humiliation, fear and pain. But this, this quiet acceptation with no expectations, just a friend… _A friend_…

Now, after all these months, her wish was true.

He let go and began breathing again.

"My name's Erik."

"I am glad to know you, Erik."

From there, their friendship grew on, blossomed into something sweet.

He would never love her as he'd loved Christine, but it was good. She would dance for him and he would sing for her, and they would share memories of their beloved opera.

She had never asked to remove the mask, content to love him as the masked man she'd always been attracted to. It never went further than hugs, and that would sometimes frustrate her, but she never held it against him.

She understood. She would never be like _her_ in his mind.

Still, when she felt his heart beat against hers, in the dead of night, and he allowed her to caress his arms, and his back, to entwine her fingers with the soft hairs on his head, wig forgotten, mask on, mask always on, she quietly sighed.

If this was all she'd ever be given, so be it. It was worth it. She was longing for more, but was prepared to wait for it.

He knew she wanted more, but he couldn't. This was as much as he could give, more than she would ever truly want. Deep down, he was only ever a monster, and had accepted that.

But still, it was tender and soft. He would caress her cheeks, her light hair, burrow his face against her soft breasts.

She was ready to give her all to him, but he felt greedy and selfish, to take from her without giving her anything in return.

"I love you," she would whisper when she thought he was sleeping.

He never was.

And never could answer.

Sometimes, she caught him looking into the nothingness, replaying on their piano a melody, haunting and heavy with regret. He was thinking about her.

No matter what, he was always thinking about her.

She missed her friend, of course. And sometimes, seeing him like this, she wished she'd been curious enough to be her real friend, and _had_ helped her in that situation.

But the past was the past. Her friend was gone now. Out of reach from either of them.

So she reached up to him, and brought his face under her neck, her arms around him, and held him. He never saw her tears, but he heard them.

She couldn't see the same tears he had under his mask.

But still, she kissed his forehead, and held him.

She was there to soothe his nightmares.

They shared the same bed, she'd insisted on that, even if nothing bound them together, except their grief, and their love. Despite what he never said, he still felt something for her.

She didn't try to convince herself she would ever replace the golden voice of the Angel in her lover's mind and heart, but she knew he loved her, still, in a way.

It was enough.

Perhaps if she repeated that lie enough times, she would end up believing it.


End file.
